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“Your mom should have come right back and said how much younger your grandma was on her wedding day.”
“Uh, no. World War Three would have broken out right here in the bridal shop.”
“I always think of a good comeback too late,” she says. “If we ever get into an argument, prepare yourself to revisit the conversation the next day.”
“Duly noted.”
Expressing her lack of interest in bridal shops, Olive exits the store and I happily follow. Eventually, Abuela joins us and we go on our merry way without a hint of ire between the older women. Mom and Abuela continue down the street, shopping as if nothing happened.
Mom finds a women’s clothing store she wants to look at and drags Olive in with her. Meanwhile, I stay outside with Abuela, browsing the stuff for sale by the street vendors. We try on sunglasses and I buy a bag of chicharrones to share—extra hot sauce. She asks me questions about the restaurant and if I’m happy there, briefly touching on Abuelo and his birthday coming up. Then she winks at me and tells me she’ll never forgive me if I don’t go—Abuelo is turning ninety, after all—and to bring my beautiful girlfriend.
The thing is, the word for girlfriend in Spanish is novia, which also means bride. She wags her brows dramatically when she says it.
“Tengo un presentimiento,” she says, which means she has a gut feeling.
“Puedo decir cuando alguien está enamorado, y ella esta enamorada de ti.”
There’s no telling Abuela she’s way off base. That it’s impossible for her to detect that Olive is in love with me. I suppose we’re playing our part well if we’re fooling Abuela.
She shakes a bony finger at me. “Predigo que te casaras con ese mujer.”
I can’t respond. How can I? Winking and nudging about noticing how my fake girlfriend seems to be in love with me is one thing. Predicting I’ll marry her is quite another. Abuela is the superstitious type, and when she predicts something, she thinks it’s because she has a direct telephone line to God and he’s telling her all sorts of things—what to have for breakfast, if she should buy the red blouse or the blue blouse, and apparently, who I’ll marry.
I’m saved from further uncomfortable questions about my love life by Mom, who’s just exited the clothing store.
“Give me your credit card,” she demands with her palm extended.
“Okay, when you ask like that, I get a little nervous.”
“Just give me your card, Nacho.” She crooks her fingers impatiently and glances over her shoulder.
“I need to know what you’re going to buy first.”
“Olive found some things she wants to buy. Come on, hand it over.”
“Que quiere la Olive?” asks Abuela, not quite fluent enough in English to catch everything.
“Se probó algunos vestidos y se ve muy hermosa,” Mom tells her.
Abuela smacks me on the arm. “Comprale algo a tu novia, apretado.”
Just then, Olive runs out of the shop, adjusting the strap of her tank top. “Ignacio, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, he does,” says Mom, still holding out her hand.
Abuela’s giving me an intense scowl.
“What did you find in there, Olive?” I ask.
“Just some clothes your mom wanted me to try. She didn’t want to be the only one trying things on, so I joined her.”
“Did you like the clothes?” I ask.
“Well, yeah, I liked them but—”
I shush her with my finger on her lips, then I take out my wallet and hand my credit card to Mom. Abuela follows Mom into the store, but Olive just stares at me.
“I didn’t come here so you’d buy things for me,” she says. “I still owe you for the uniform pants.”
